


for you as yet

by elanorelle



Series: Man's long shadow [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanorelle/pseuds/elanorelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Mary lives. Some things change, some things don't, and Dean's just postponing the inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for you as yet

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Holy Sonnet XIV by John Donne.

Dean was four years old when he kissed Sam for the first time.

Neither one of them remembers, but their mother’s eyes get all misty when she tells the story—usually right after someone’s commented on how well her sons seem to get along.

They’d just brought Sam back from the hospital, wrapped up in Dean’s old baby blanket (which he’d still been adamantly insisting he needed for himself right up until the point Mary had gone into labour), and when his mother crouched down to bring the yellow bundle to his height, Dean screwed his face up like he was coming to a decision. Then he kissed his little brother on the forehead and politely said, "It’s very nice to meet you, Sam," just the way he knew he should.

That was the first, and there have been others since. When Sam was five and got lost in the mall, it was Dean who finally caught sight of him over by JCPenney, not crying or anything, not even looking concerned, just standing there like he was waiting for something. Dean ran up ahead of their parents and grabbed him: picked him up and said, "Sammy!" and kissed him on the top of the head. Sam just smiled and said, "You found me!"

He stopped smiling when their parents gave him a severe telling off for not staying close and told him to hold his brother’s hand. He sulked for half an hour straight after that, but he held Dean’s hand tight all the same.

Or there was the time the two of them dared each other to jump off the garage roof, when Sam almost got a concussion and Dean kissed it better.

Their mother saw the whole thing from the kitchen window, and insisted on a trip to the hospital even though Sam had only been out for a second and wasn’t showing any signs of damage beyond an impressive lump.

She spent the whole journey lecturing them both on how stupid it was to jump off of anything, and how she thought she’d raised boys with more intelligence than this. Dean couldn’t help but notice that most of her words and significant glances to the backseat were directed at Sam rather than him, and that didn’t seem right at all. He tried saying, "It was my fault, Mom, I dared him."

Mary frowned at them in the rear-view mirror—Sam sulking and curled into the curve of Dean’s arm, Dean holding an ice pack to his head—but she didn’t stop talking for even a second.

Sam squirmed and huffed against Dean’s shoulder, face sullen and closed off, and when their mother was distracted at the next set of traffic lights Dean shifted the ice pack and pressed his lips to Sam’s temple. The skin there was cold and damp, and initially Sam winced at the contact. Dean held it for a couple of seconds, felt Sam’s breathing hitch a little, like maybe he was trying not to cry.

There’s all of those times, and more besides, and now there’s this: there’s Sam’s mouth on his, Sam’s tongue sliding slick soft against Dean’s and his hands in Dean’s hair and his thigh pressed up between Dean’s legs. There’s this, and it’s nothing like any of the kisses they’ve shared before.

+++

When Dean Winchester is fourteen, his baby brother tells him that he loves him.

Dean’s in his room on the bed when the door creaks open and his brother comes in (good thing he didn’t leave it any later—five more minutes and Dean would have been jacking off over the memory of Alison Bates taking her shirt off for him last week behind the bleachers).

Sam frowns; his forehead crinkling like it does when he’s trying hard to figure something out. Their mother gets just the same expression when she’s doing crossword puzzles or deciding where to park. He bites his lip and says, "Dean," like it’s a question he’s not sure he really wants to ask.

Dean just looks at him, and Sam tilts his head and says, quietly, "I love you."

It’s not exactly breaking news, so Dean smiles at first and huffs out a laugh, waits for Sam to smile back but he doesn’t. Dean tries to come out with a customary response – "same to you, kiddo," or "right back atcha" or "of course you do," but the look on Sam’s face makes the words stick in his throat. Eventually Dean finds himself saying, "Yeah. Yeah, I love you too, Sammy."

There’s something in the words he can’t quite grasp, hanging heavy in the air between them, and he doesn’t hold Sam’s gaze for long.

He thinks maybe his brother notices too, because it’s a long time before Sam says it again.

+++

Dean is seventeen when he realises that he can’t ignore it anymore.

Sam is lying on Dean’s bed, long graceless limbs at awkward angles making him look somewhat like a fallen giraffe. Dean hopes that the lack of self-confidence which seems to stem from the way Sam doesn’t quite _fit_ inside his own body just now will dissipate when his arms and legs sort themselves out in relation to the rest of him. Well, when he’s feeling generous he does. Other times, he’s just resentful of the fact that Sam is clearly going to end up taller than him – is almost so already.

Dean is helping Sam with his geometry homework. Or rather, Dean is _doing_ Sam’s geometry homework, which is just _stupid_ because Dean’s smart, but Sammy’s smarter, and even though he’s got four years of school on his brother Dean’s probably still taking twice as long to do this as Sam would. But these days Sam doesn’t seem to do much homework unless Dean’s there to make him, and sometimes not even then, so Dean’s taken to just doing some of it for him, at least enough to help him get by.

They’d been talking before, not much but enough to be companionable. Sam gets quieter and quieter, though, and eventually Dean realises he’s basically been talking to himself for about ten minutes. When he turns his head, Sam’s eyes are fixed on him. After a moment, his brother says, "Dean, I want…"

Dean holds in a breath as Sam trails off, the last word spoken quietly enough that Dean could probably ignore it, probably _should_ ignore it, but there’s something in Sam’s voice and it’s making Dean uncomfortable. The air is too thick and the room is too hot, and more than anything he’s just _annoyed_ , and he wants Sam to know.

So he says, "You want me to what? Dude, I’m already doing your freaking homework. Don’t get greedy."

Sam frowns and says, "Dean," in that tone which makes Dean want to crawl out of his own skin. He’s heard it a lot lately, and it promises nothing good, so Dean just glares and spits out, "What?"

Sam looks like he’s been stung, and rolls over to lie on his back instead. There’s a gap between his jeans and t-shirt, the skin there pale where Dean’s is tanned. It had been a hot summer but Sam hadn’t taken his shirt off once, even when they went to the beach. He’s silent, staring at the ceiling, and Dean goes back to the problem he’s working on. When he looks up a few minutes later, Sam’s head is turned and his eyes are on Dean again.

Dean sighs. "You know, Sammy, you could give me a hand here. This is your homework, after all."

Sam shrugs as best he can lying down, an abortive movement that just makes him look like he’s squirming uncomfortably.

"I didn’t ask for your help, Dean."

It’s true, but it’s also so _fucking_ ungrateful that Dean throws down his pencil and resists an urge to slam the textbook closed. Preferably on Sam’s fingers, which are tapping rhythms on the edge of the desk near to where Dean’s resting his own. Inexplicably, he feels that he wants to sit on his hands, but he forces himself to leave them where they are. Sam’s fingers settle, but they’re still close to Dean’s on the desk.

They sit in silence again, longer and more tense this time than before, and Dean knows that Sam’s going to say something else if he doesn’t get in first. So he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face and says, "Man, I’m done with geometry. Want me to let you kick my ass at Mortal Kombat instead?"

"'Let me' kick your ass? What, are you delusional now or something?" Sam’s not smiling, but the tone in his voice is almost light and easy again. It’s something Dean can work with, at least. He gets up from the chair, shaking his head sadly.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. It’s not good to live in denial, man. You gotta know your strengths."

"Uhuh, and what are _your_ strengths?"

"Well, Nintendo, obviously."

"Obviously. Anything else?"

"You mean apart from brains, muscle and a way with women?"

Sam snorts, and when he speaks, Dean can _hear_ the amusement in his voice even if it’s not showing on his face yet. "Yeah, Dean, apart from all that."

"Well, there’s always my winning smile." Dean offers a demonstration of such, and for a moment, Sam’s forehead creases just a little, but then it relaxes again and he _finally_ breaks out into a smile of his own.

"Jerk," he says, getting up off the bed and following Dean out the door, "Okay, so what about me?"

"What about you?"

"Dickwad. What are my strengths?"

"Oh, right. Hmm," Dean pretends to think about it, taps his chin. "Well … you’re really really good at being a pain in my ass."

"I hate you."

"I know you do."

They go down to the basement and play Mortal Kombat, and Dean pretends to let Sam win (because it’ll be a cold day in Hell before Dean Winchester admits that his little brother can kick his ass, even on a video game) until their mother calls them both to lay the table for dinner. They laugh and joke and tussle on the couch, and it’s almost like nothing’s changed.

+++

The summer after he graduates high school, Dean spends weeks drifting from party to party, mostly for kids he doesn’t even really know, and the time in between hanging out with his friends, comparing college destinations and future ambitions.

He even manages, finally, to score with Caroline Ellis, whose acceptance to Yale seems to have lowered her inhibitions considerably. The second time, though, she tries to get him to do it without a condom, and Dean might be a lot of things, but moronic has never been one of them. He tries convincing Caroline—while she’s sulkily putting her clothes back on—that maybe now’s not the best time in her life to start taking risks, but she leaves hurriedly and so affronted (or possibly just embarrassed) that Dean’s not sure she pays much attention. He hopes for the best anyway: she’s a nice girl.

The days pass quickly, and it’s almost the end of July before Dean realises that he’s hardly seen his brother since school ended. It’s been entirely unintentional, but the realisation leaves him struck by a horrible sense of guilt that has him cancelling his plans for the next couple of days and going in search of Sam.

He finds his mother first, in the study sorting through papers and paying bills, brow furrowed in concentration. Dean comes up quietly behind and puts his hands on her shoulders. She starts a little, says "Dean," reproachfully, but when she cranes her neck round to look at him, there’s a smile on her face. He asks her if she’s seen Sam.

"I think he might be upstairs, but I haven’t actually seen him since yesterday."

Dean kisses her on the cheek, then turns to leave the room. She calls after him, "See if he wants anything to eat. I don’t think he’s had anything today."

"Sure thing, Mom," he says.

He goes upstairs and, unsurprisingly, finds Sam’s door shut and bolted from the inside. He’s never quite figured out how Sam managed to convince Dad to let him have a bolt on his door in the first place, but the fact of it makes him a little sad. He can hear Sam’s music even through the wood, and he has to raise his voice.

"Sammy – you in there?"

For a second, Dean thinks maybe Sam hasn’t heard, but eventually he gets a muffled, "What is it?" in response.

"It’s me, Sam, what the hell? Open up."

There’s another pause before Dean hears the sound of the bolt being pushed back, but the door remains shut and after a few seconds wait Dean figures that he’s probably going to have to do the rest himself.

He’s assailed by noise the moment he pushes open the door. He’s not sure what Sam’s listening to: his music tastes have changed dramatically the last couple of years. It’s definitely not Nirvana, which is a relief (if Dean never hears _Pennyroyal Tea_ again it’ll be too soon), but other than that he has no clue. To Dean’s ears, it all sounds pretty much the same – angry guys singing angry words while in the background, angry drums battle it out with even angrier guitars. This dude, though—he’s singing so fast that Dean’s having trouble understanding what he’s even singing _about_. He maybe mentions Tipper Gore at one point, but Dean can’t think of a single good reason for anyone to want to write a song about _her_ , so that can’t be right.

Sam’s on the bed, stretched out on his stomach reading a book. He’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and not much else, which isn’t surprising, given the heat, and his hair is damp and curling at the ends. The way he’s propped up on his elbows means that his shoulder blades jut out at sharp angles. He seems to be all angles, these days, puppy fat melting away as he shoots up like a beanpole.

"Can you turn the music down?" Dean says.

Sam looks at him, and for a second Dean gets the idea that he’s going to do just the opposite. But when he presses a button on the remote, the volume falls to a reasonable level.

Dean’s still standing in the doorway, and his potential seating options are limited. Sam’s desk chair is piled high with a couple weeks’ worth of laundry (clean, hopefully), and the only other place to sit is the bed, over which Sam is currently sprawled. He takes up so much space that there’s no way for Dean to sit too without there inevitably being a lot of touching. Dean’s not sure exactly when that became a problem. In the end, he just shuts the door behind him and leans against it.

"I was just wonderin’ if you wanted to hang out. Play some Nintendo, maybe," he says.

Sam’s head snaps round to look at him, and Dean’s not expecting the bitterness in his voice when he speaks: "Aren’t you supposed to be packing or whatever?"

Dean holds Sam’s gaze and says, evenly, "Not yet. Still got a couple weeks before all that."

Sam’s eyes narrow a little more. "Right."

They stare at each other a moment longer, before Sam turns his face away from Dean again and carries on reading his book; or at least, he pretends to. They fall into silence which drags on, long and uncomfortable, except for the dude on the CD, who doggedly keeps on singing gibberish.

Eventually, when the next song ends and there’s a rare moment of real quiet, Dean says, "What are you reading?"

And yeah, maybe in most cases that’d be a lame opener, but Sam’s always reading books and Dean’s always asking about them, so he’s taken aback when Sam, without taking his eyes away from the page, just answers, "A book."

Right. So it’s going to be one of _those_ conversations. Dean doesn’t respond to Sam’s vaguely antagonistic tone, keeps his own voice as genial as he can make it.

"I can see that, shortbus. Any good?"

Sam shrugs. "It’s alright."

"Yeah? What’s it about?"

"The Devil."

Dean raises one eyebrow. "The Devil? What, like, Satan?"

"Yeah, Dean, like Satan."

"Okay, so, what happens?"

It’s a known fact that, no matter how bad his mood, this is one subject Sam never can resist talking about. Even Dad’s found that diverting Sam’s attention to whatever book he happens to be reading can sometimes help neutralise a potential argument before it’s begun. Sure enough, Sam gives up on the pretence at reading and lets the book fall shut. The front cover has a cat on it.

Sam sighs, as if this is all a grave imposition, and says, "The Devil shows up in Moscow with a bunch of lackeys during the Stalinist regime, posing as a magician. Chaos ensues."

"Huh. Sounds like a laugh a minute." Dean pushes away from the door and moves closer to the bed. Sam takes the hint, shifting his arms and legs enough that Dean can sit on the edge comfortably. He nods towards the book. "What’s with the cat?"

Sam runs his fingers over the cover. One corner is bent a little, and the spine is cracked in a couple of places. Mom would hate that; hopefully this isn’t one of hers. Considering the subject matter, it’s probably unlikely.

"It’s one of his henchmen," Sam says.

"What, the cat?"

"Yeah."

"Is working for the Devil."

"Yeah."

"That’s weird."

Sam shrugs again, and this time his shoulders look a little looser than before. "It’s a pretty weird book."

"Well, maybe not so weird. I always knew cats were demonic, anyway."

Sam smiles a little. "You’re just still pissed about when Mephistopheles clawed your arm up that time."

"Dude, that thing was evil, I swear it. Had the fires of Hell burnin’ in its eyes when it went for me, totally unprovoked—"

Sam bursts out laughing all of a sudden, and it’s a sound Dean’s not heard for weeks and one that makes him want to join in, so he does. Sam rolls over onto his side so that he’s propping his head up with one arm. "Unprovoked? Dean, you poked him. With a stick."

"I did not!"

"Dude, I asked Callie afterwards and she says you were totally poking him with a stick for like ten minutes and even then he only went for you because you put your hand in too close to his face."

"Whatever, man. That cat had it in for me. He was just waiting for the perfect moment to attack."

"Like when you started poking him with a stick?"

"Shut up," Dean says, and shoves at Sam’s shoulder, but there’s not much force behind it and Sam just laughs and shoves back. "Who names a damn cat 'Mephistopheles,' anyway? That’s just asking for trouble."

Sam grins. "That’s Callie."

"Yeah. She’s a weird one, alright. No wonder you two get along so well."

Sam laughs again and shakes his head, strands of damp hair falling across his eyes. He rolls back onto his stomach and folds his arms underneath his head. He’s a little further over on the bed than he was before, though, so that the side of his chest bumps lightly against the small of Dean’s back.

The silence this time is easier, less awkward than it was before. Or at least, Dean thinks it is, until Sam mutters something unintelligible into his arms. Dean asks him to repeat it.

Sam lifts his head and his eyes are wet. He says again, in an impossibly small voice: "Don’t want you to go."

Dean tries to ignore the sudden ridiculous impulse he has to say, "Okay, Sammy, I won’t," but as a result he can’t think of anything to say at all.

Very softly, he places a hand on Sam’s back, feels the damp heat of his skin, drags his thumb over the mole at the edge of Sam’s shoulder blade. He tells himself that it’s no different to when Sam was little and Dean would rub his back when he was sick or upset.

The heat in the room is almost unbearable, but he thinks he feels his brother shiver under his fingers.

+++

Dean’s first night alone at college, Sam calls almost a dozen times in less than two hours.

His family says goodbye to him at the dorm in the early morning, and the first call comes less than twelve hours after that. They’d promised to call when they got home, but seriously—Sam must have picked up the phone the second they walked through the front door.

"You miss me yet?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah, like I’m going to miss your stupid ass _at all_ the next few weeks. I plan on burying myself so deep in beer, pot and pussy that I won’t even remember I _have_ a brother."

Dean knows exactly the disgusted look that’s on Sam’s face right now—he can practically _hear_ it in his voice when he replies, "Gross, Dean."

Oddly enough, his roommate (a pre-med student named Simon, who Dean can already see is going to need a _lot_ of help loosening up) looks at him from across the room with pretty much the exact same expression.

"Hey Sammy," he says, "Remind me to introduce you to my roommate sometime. I think you two would get along great."

Sam phones again a few minutes later, asks Dean whether he left his sweater there or not. He didn’t.

The next two calls are within a few seconds of each other: first, Sam wants to know when Dean’s coming home for Thanksgiving.

"Mom needs to know," he says, "So she can put it on the calendar."

"Sam, I gave her the all the dates for the semester already, she wrote them down in her planner, remember?"

"Yeah," Sam says, "I think she lost them though."

Dean thinks that that’s really, _really_ unlikely, but he tells Sam the date anyway.

"Great, I’ll tell her."

"Okay, I’m glad. Bye, Sam."

Dean’s barely put the phone down when it rings again and Sam’s saying, "Asshat. I wasn’t finished! You are, like, definitely coming home for Thanksgiving, right? Mom just, you know, wanted to check. Cos I think we’re going to Aunt Liz’s house this year and she needs to know whether you’re coming so she can—"

"Yes, Sam, of course I’m coming home, what the hell? Seriously, dude, I’ve gotta go, tell Mom I’ll call her tomorrow."

The fifth phone call comes half an hour after that, just as Dean’s about to head out with Simon to the cafeteria.

Simon raises one eyebrow as he pulls on his shoes. "Your brother again?"

His tone makes Dean squirm, and he leaves the machine to pick up the call while they go for dinner. The food isn’t terrible, and Dean’s surprised by how much of it Simon manages to put away; Dean had assumed he’d be a fussy eater. They sit with a bunch of people who also live in their dorm and everybody seems pretty cool. There are a couple of girls who catch Dean’s eye: he’s sitting too far away to start making conversation, but he throws a smile or two their way and tries to remember their names for later. When he gets back to the room, there are no new messages, but it’s not even five minutes before the phone rings again.

"Hey! I called you like five times in the last hour and you didn’t pick up, where were you?"

"I was out, Sam. We were eating. It’s something people do when they get hungry."

"Ha ha. Is it possible to major in comedy, there, Dean? ‘Cause that was funny."

"Sam, what do you want?"

Sam shrugs. Or at least, Dean thinks so. Obviously he can’t see either way, but knowing Sam as well as he does, it’s probably a pretty fair assumption.

"I just wanted to say hey. See how things are going."

"Things are going fine, Sam. They were fine the first time you called, and they’ve been going fine ever since. They’ll probably continue to go fine even without your calling me every five minutes to check, okay?"

Sam’s silent on the other end of the line for a few seconds: Dean can’t even hear him breathing. At his desk, Simon politely doesn’t pay any attention to the fact that Dean basically just told his little brother to fuck off over the phone. Eventually, Sam says, "Okay, sorry. I’ll talk to you later," and hangs up.

Dean feels kind of like an ass after that, but constantly hearing his brother’s voice makes his chest tighten in ways he doesn’t want to think about. It’s homesickness, but it’s something else as well, and it’s just _not helpful_.

It gets pretty late and Dean’s considering whether or not he should drag Simon out to this party he’s heard is going on tonight, when the phone rings again. Dean ignores it and keeps on putting his clothes away in the dresser. After a few rings, Simon picks up and answers with an almost secretarial, "Hello, this is Simon," and yeah, that’s _definitely_ a guy who needs to have a little fun. Or a lot. Preferably the kind that nobody remembers the next day.

"Dean? Yes, he’s here, may I ask who’s calling?" Simon pauses, gets this amused look on his face at whatever the other person is saying, then hands the phone over to Dean. "It’s for you. Your brother."

Dean gives him a sarcastic, "Thanks," as he takes the receiver and barks out, "What?" by way of a greeting.

"Dean?" It’s his mother. Dean flips Simon the bird from across the room, but Simon just laughs and goes back to colour coding his schedule which, what the hell? How does he have a schedule already? Does Dean have a schedule? Maybe pre-med students get theirs earlier. Hell, Simon probably phoned ahead to find out in advance how many colours he’d need.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hey sweetheart, listen, did Sam call earlier?"

"Yeah, Mom, like fifty times."

His mother makes a sympathetic noise and says, "Don’t be too hard on him. He just misses you, is all."

"He saw me this morning."

"That’s not the point and you know it."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Anyway, I know the last thing you want on your first night is to talk with your mother, but I just wanted to check if Sam had asked you about Thanksgiving?"

And _oh_ , Dean definitely doesn’t like the sound of this.

"What?" he says.

"Well, I know you gave me the dates for the semester, but I think I must have lost them somewhere, and I need to put it down on the calendar."

Dean’s tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, and when he tries speaking all that comes out is air.

"Dean?"

He finally manages something that sounds like, "Yes."

"You think you’re going to come home for Thanksgiving? I know it’s a bit far in advance, but we’re going to be at Aunt Liz’s house this year and you know what she’s like. If I don’t let her know how many of us are going by September she’ll probably have a breakdown of some kind. I thought Sam was going to call and ask you but he’s disappeared up to his room again without a word."

Dean’s an ass. He’s also apparently lost the power of speech, and he’s not sure how many times his Mom says his name before he finally answers.

"Um. Yeah, I’m coming home, Mom. On the twenty-fifth. Can’t wait."

"Okay, good. I’ll stop bothering you now, but call if you need anything. I love you, baby."

"Love you too—hey, Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you—can you put Sam on?"

"Sure, sweetie, just let me go get him." It takes a few minutes, and Dean thinks maybe Sam’s not going to talk to him—can’t really blame him if he doesn’t—when he hears the click of the upstairs phone being picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam doesn’t offer anything more than a guarded, "Hey," in response, and then it’s Dean’s turn again. He takes a deep breath and thinks that it probably shouldn’t be this hard to tell your little brother that you’re sorry.

"So, I checked," he says, "Turns out that you can’t major in comedy here. Or, like, anywhere. I don’t think it’s even a real major."

Sam’s quiet for a couple of seconds, then he says, "Good. ‘Cause you’d suck at it," but there’s no real malice in his voice.

As apologies go, Dean knows this one is pretty poor, but it seems to clear the air anyway. They talk for twenty minutes or so about unimportant stuff and only say goodbye when Mary picks up the other phone and reminds Sam that it’s a school night.

After that, Dean manages to convince Simon that a party’s a great idea, and when they head out it’s the best Dean’s felt since his family drove away that morning.

+++

When Dean goes home for Thanksgiving, he’s filled with a sense of, if not actual dread, then a grim anticipation that he can’t quite rationalise.

Break doesn’t actually start until Tuesday, but Dean’s Monday class gets cancelled and so his Dad takes the weekend to drive up and get him. He brings the Impala, and Dean—much to his delight—gets to drive all of the way back. They don’t talk much on the journey, they listen to the radio instead, but at one point John says, "Sam’s going to be pleased to see you."

It certainly seems that way at first; they’ve not even finished pulling into the drive when the front door opens and Sam comes bounding out like some enormous, excitable puppy, and Dean’s hardly closed the car door behind him before he finds himself with an armful (well, both arms, really) of Sam.

Dean laughs a little and says, "Easy there, kiddo," but Sam doesn’t reply and he doesn’t let go, doesn’t even loosen his grip.

Their dad finishes taking Dean’s things out of the trunk and, as he walks by, claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder and says, "See—what did I tell you?"

He smiles easily and goes on into the house. Sam still has his arms tight around Dean’s neck, and Dean puts his own arms up and rests his hands lightly on his brother’s back. He can feel the hard ridge of Sam’s spine and the curve of his ribcage through the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

It’s only a hug, except Dean can feel every inch of Sam’s body pressed up against his and it feels like a few too many seconds before his brother finally pulls away.

Dean feels breathless, almost light-headed, but he pushes the feeling aside and says with a smirk, "So, you missed me, huh?"

Sam snorts with what’s probably supposed to be contempt, but he doesn’t actually deny it. Dean pokes him in the ribs, laughs when Sam squawks and tries to twist his body away from Dean’s fingers when he does it again. Poking turns into tussling which turns into Dean holding Sam in a headlock and administering a pretty spectacular noogie, while Sam just yells variations on, "Get off of me, you jerk!"

When he finally does let go, Dean smiles and shoves at Sam’s shoulder.

"You totally missed me," he says.

Sam’s flushed, and he’s trying to look annoyed, Dean can tell, but the corners of his mouth are curving up into a smile as he says, "Whatever, man," and shoves back.

Its an enthusiastic enough welcome that Dean’s more than a little confused by the fact that, when they get inside, Sam barely speaks two words together all evening, to Dean or anybody else. What’s even more puzzling is that that’s pretty much how it is for the rest of the week—answers that don’t move beyond a couple of words, sometimes even syllables, Sam offering up nothing he’s not practically forced to.

Thanksgiving itself is about as much of an ordeal as Dean expects it to be. This has never been his favourite holiday, especially not when it’s being organised by his aunt, whose extensive obsession over every tiny detail has the uncanny power of making everybody else stressed all day long, just by association.

On their mother’s side, Dean and Sam have a cousin, Callie, who they’ve always been close to. She has two much older siblings, a brother and sister, but they have their own lives and families now and Dean and Sam have never really seen them outside of holidays since they were kids. Callie, though, she’s always been a friend to both of them. She’s the same age as Dean almost to the day, but it’s Sam she has the most in common with—books and music and a similar sense of humour—and Dean thinks Sam was probably just as unhappy when she went off to college (all the way to Massachusetts, no less) as when Dean did.

Usually, the three of them would get through the whole thing together, sticking as close to the food and as far away from everyone else as possible, but this year Dean doesn’t really get that option. He’s hardly in the front door before people start asking him about college, and when he finally gets a chance to look around the room for Sam, he’s already disappeared off somewhere. Before Dean can stealthily do the same, his grandmother sits him down and asks him whether he’s met any nice girls yet.

The never-ending stream of questions doesn’t let up during dinner; at one point Dean looks across the room and sees Callie in conversation with his father—who’s undoubtedly asking just as many annoying questions as everybody else, possibly more—and she throws Dean a wink when he catches her eye in desperate appeal.

This being Thanksgiving with Aunt Liz, there’s about five times as much food as there actually needs to be, and Dean finds himself talked into seconds and then thirds before he manages to escape into the living room, possibly to find a quiet corner to lay down and die in.

The first thing he notices when he enters the room is Sam, sitting over by the window, and the second thing is that Sam’s talking to Callie, who’s somehow managed to free herself from the family’s clutches way before Dean could.

There’s this open, glad look on Sam’s face as they chat (Dean thinks they might be talking about one of the dozen activist groups Callie’s joined since she moved to college, possibly the one about whaling), conversation going back and forth with ease, and it’s like a kick in the teeth to see Sam giving so freely what he’s holding back from his family—from Dean.

When Dean comes to join in the conversation, it’s almost painful to see how quickly Sam drops out of it. He looks interested in everything Dean and Callie have to say, and he laughs at Dean’s stupid jokes and Callie’s sarcastic remarks, but it isn’t the same, not even close.

Soon enough the rest of the family starts filling up the living room again, and then somehow an idle comment from John about Sam’s eating habits (he’s spent dinner moodily poking at his mashed potatoes, and left most of what was on his plate untouched) turns into a vicious argument about the "truth" of Thanksgiving and the rights of Native Americans today. Dean’s fairly sure Sam doesn’t actually care as much about the issue as he claims to here, he’s just butting heads with Dad, like always. The whole thing winds up with Sam storming off to sit in the back of the Impala until they leave.

It is, at least, arguably an improvement on the year Sam put green beans in Dad’s shoes after the fight about why marshmallows and pie didn’t constitute a balanced meal.

The next day, Dean’s mother makes him a turkey sandwich so good he nearly changes his mind about Thanksgiving; the leftovers almost definitely make up for all the drama it otherwise seems to entail.

Mary sits with him while he eats and talks to him about Sam. She’s a little concerned: about the company he’s keeping; the fact he’s always out, never telling them where; how quiet and withdrawn he is. She’d thought—wrongly, it seems—that it might get better with Dean at home, and now she asks Dean if he could try talking to his brother a little before he leaves.

"He always listens to you," she says, smiling, but Dean can hear the worry behind her voice.

He waits until later that day, when he and Sam are in the basement playing some stupid racing game Sam’s borrowed from a friend. They’re sitting in near silence—it’s been almost forty-five minutes and neither of them have said anything much beyond "yes" and "no" and "want to play again?"—but it’s not really awkward or uncomfortable or anything, and Dean’s reluctant to start a conversation that will probably only make Sam mad and send him storming back off to his room. But he promised Mom that he would, and he probably won’t get another chance before he leaves tomorrow (unless Sam’s up at seven, which Dean _seriously_ doubts), so he has to at least try.

"Mom says you haven’t been home much recently."

Sam shrugs, doesn’t take his eyes off the television screen. "I guess."

"She says you’ve been spending a lot of time with that Grant kid, what’s his name?"

"Phil? Yeah, sort of."

"You know, he’s a total stoner. Possibly a psychopath. Definitely an idiot."

Sam’s mouth quirks up at one corner. "I know."

"So why hang out with him?"

Sam shrugs again. "He has a Playstation."

"Right." Sam wins at that point; Dean’s still half a lap behind, but he’s not even really trying so he figures the defeat isn’t too humiliating. They sit there for a minute in silence while the screen flashes high scores and lap times at them, then Dean shifts on the couch so that he’s facing more towards his brother, and says, "Just try not to get into trouble, okay?"

Sam might nod, Dean can’t really tell, but he doesn’t say anything so Dean bumps his knee against Sam’s and says again, "Okay?"

Sam still doesn’t answer.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, okay. No getting into trouble, I get it."

"’Cause you know I’d come back and tear you a new one if you did."

Sam looks at him then, head resting on the back of the couch, and says, "Yeah, I guess you would."

Dean swallows. He feels like there’s something he should be doing right now, but he can’t say what. He tries to think of something to say; something flip that will dispel the weird energy that seems to have sprung up between them. Before he can, though, Sam shifts his gaze back to the television and says,

"You want to play again?"

Dean blinks, and his voice comes out rough and unsteady when he says, "Sure, Sammy."

+++

Dean was almost nine the year his little brother decided that Christmas just wasn’t Christmas unless it began some time before six am. Their parents weren’t too receptive to the idea, and so it was up to Dean to keep Sam occupied until they could reasonably be expected to get up and join in their son’s enthusiasm.

Dean wrapped up in newspaper just about every toy they owned between them and gave them to Sam one by one to unwrap, which worked great until his brother recognised something Dean already gave him half an hour ago. He refused anymore of Dean’s offerings after that, and his four-year-old face looked so betrayed that eventually, Dean went downstairs (breaking his mother’s number one Christmas rule in the process) and brought back one of his own presents for Sam to open.

It wasn’t anything much – a blue and yellow plastic boat meant for bath-time play (which Dean was _way_ too old for, by the way) from a great-aunt who Dean had probably only met at Sam’s christening or something. Sam, however, was delighted, first by the gift wrap, which had penguins on it (he happened to be going through a penguin phase), and then by the gift itself. Of course, there were only so many ways that a plastic boat could be entertaining, even to a four-year-old, and eventually Sam got restless again. Their parents wouldn’t be up for at least another half an hour, so Dean tiptoed down the stairs again and grabbed the first penguin covered present he could find.

This time, however, what Sam unwrapped turned out to be the Megatron figure Dean had desperately wanted since June to complete his Transformers collection. He hadn’t been expecting it: their mother had made it clear on more than one occasion that she wasn’t happy about any toy that looked like, turned into or otherwise resembled a gun, even one made of black and silver plastic.

He did a pretty good job of hiding his dismay when Sam pulled the wrapping off, and held out hope that maybe Sam wouldn’t like it, or that he’d lose interest as the day wore on. He didn’t: carried it around all day and showed it off to everyone who’d look three or four times. Dean tried not to sulk, but he refused to play with Sam when he asked, and eventually ended up curled into a corner of the couch feeling sorry for himself.

After a while, Dad came in and told Dean that the grown ups wanted to use the living room, and why didn’t he go upstairs and play with his brother?

Dean trudged upstairs only to find Sam sitting in _his_ room surrounded by _his_ toys, most notably his entire Transformers collection, and the stupid toy boat which Sam opened first that morning. He was about to yell at Sam for touching his stuff, when his little brother turned around and said "Dean!" with such delight that the anger just disappeared.

"What’s up, Sammy?"

"Dean," he said again earnestly, "The robots need t’ sail ‘cross the ocean to find the missin’ pirate treasure and save the princess!"

"Megatron can fly, Sammy. He doesn’t need a boat."

Sam looked thoughtful; then held up another of Dean’s collection. "Can he fly too?"

"That’s Optimus Prime, Sam."

"Can he fly?"

Dean thought about this for a minute, but couldn’t come up with a better answer than, "Sometimes."

Sam looked confused for all of three seconds before he picked up another toy. "Can the kitty fly?"

"Kit—Sam, that’s _Ravage_ , not a kitty."

"But can he—"

"No, Sam, he can’t fly."

"Then he needs a boat!" Sam said with smug satisfaction.

Dean tried explaining to Sam exactly what was wrong with this scenario: that _no way_ would Optimus Prime and Megatron be working together, that the Decepticons _totally_ had better things to do with their time than search for treasure, but Sam just cheerfully carried on wedging Optimus Prime’s foot into the prow of the boat, tongue poking out to one side of his mouth.

In the end, Dean gave up and settled on the floor next to his brother; started arranging the Decepticons in battle formation. At least this way he got a chance to play with Megatron.

"So, where’s the princess?"

Sam held "her" up. Dean shook his head and said, "No way—Starscream is like, so totally not even a _girl_ , Sammy."

But Sam was adamant, and eventually—while he did draw the line at Sam fashioning a dress for Starscream out of leftover gift wrap—Dean just let him get on with it. They spent the rest of Christmas Day making both Autobots and Decepticons search for treasure in the blue of the bedroom carpet.

+++

Dean is almost nineteen the year his brother kisses him on the porch on Christmas morning.

He wakes up early, with his bedroom still dark and the sun only dim on the horizon. He contemplates going back to sleep, but he feels awake and alert and like he wants to start the day already.

He goes for a run – not a long one, just enough to get the blood pumping and to clear what’s left of sleep and dreaming out of his head. Dean loves this time of day: the smell of the air and the changing colours of the sky and the quiet stillness of it. It’s not like he’s naturally an early riser or anything—he usually needs some kind of reason to be up, and he’s as reluctant as any to leave his bed when the mornings are dark or grey—but when he does manage it, he feels the possibility of the day stretching out before him in ways he doesn’t any other time.

His friends at college think he’s crazy; for his early morning runs and the way he shows up at eight am classes with a smile on his face. He doesn’t tell them he kind of hopes that one day he’ll have a job that gets him up with the sun.

The sky is brightening with colour by the time he comes back to the house, cloudless and clear. He takes a quick shower, puts on sweats and socks and a t-shirt, then goes downstairs and makes coffee; sits out on the back porch with a cup and waits for the rest of his family to emerge. He puts his hands into his coat pockets to keep them warm, and finds a crumpled pack of cigarettes in one and a lighter in the other.

He doesn’t really smoke much—doesn’t usually even buy cigarettes of his own—but the last couple of weeks of the semester were so stressful that somehow he found himself on five a day by the time finals week came around. Of course, the first time Simon caught him hanging out their window with a cigarette in his mouth, his roommate blinked for a second or two before sitting down and, very calmly and clinically, telling Dean exactly what a diseased lung looked like.

It was enough to put anyone off. Dean stubbed out the cigarette before Simon was halfway done, and he threw away all the rest. Except apparently, not quite all. He lights one up now, just because they’re here and he can, but even the first pull isn’t particularly satisfying. He’s definitely quitting.

He hears someone coming down the stairs, and he figures it’ll be one of his parents; Mom, probably, looking to start breakfast. When the screen door creaks open, he’s surprised to see Sam come padding out to sit next to him on the step. Sam’s not known for his love of mornings, especially not recently. Dad’s taken to calling him Sam the Sloth. It’s not particularly funny, but that’s Dad. Dean kinda loves the fact that the man couldn’t find his way to a good joke if you gave him a map and step by step instructions.

It’s cold out – cold enough that Dean’s shivering a little even in his jacket, and Sam’s dressed only in sweats and a t-shirt worn so thin there are holes at the neck.

"Dude, you’re gonna freeze."

"I’m alright." Sam’s more talkative than he was at Thanksgiving, but there are still a lot of short answers and long silences which Dean isn’t sure how to interpret.

"No, seriously, man, frostbitten is no way to celebrate Christmas. You should go and put something else on, keep your skinny ass from hypothermia."

"It’s okay."

"Some socks? I think your toes are turning blue already."

"I’m fine, Dean."

Dean gives up, goes back to sipping at his coffee. It’s not great, but it’ll do until his mother gets up and makes some more with breakfast. He sees Sam looking over at his hands, passes over the cup.

Sam wrinkles up his nose as he says, "Did you make this? Your coffee sucks, dude," but he takes the cup anyway, and sips at it gingerly.

Dean puts the cigarette to his mouth again. It’s even less appealing now than it was when he started. He’s about to stub it out on the step when Sam says, "Hey, can I have one of those?"

"You smoking now?"

Sam shrugs. "Yeah, sometimes."

"Well, you shouldn’t. Not now, not ever. Anyway, I haven’t got any left," Dean lies.

"Well, can I finish that one, if you’re not going to?"

Dean frowns. "No, Sam, you can’t—and trust me, man, you don’t friggin’ want to."

Sam looks annoyed, says, "What’s the big deal with me smoking? It’s not like you don’t."

"Yeah, well, I’m quitting."

"Since when?"

"Since now." Dean grabs back his coffee, dumps the cigarette into what liquid remains in the cup. Definitely quitting, then. He shoves the leftover cigarettes deeper into his pocket and makes a mental note to properly dispose of them later.

Sam laughs, but it’s an angry, bitten off sort of sound. He says, "So, what, are you going to start lecturing me now on the evils of smoking? Tell me how many horrible ways I’m going to die if I take it up?"

"There are a lot of them."

"Yeah."

"And it’s not like it’s even all that cool, anymore, either."

"Definitely not."

"And you know, your mouth tastes like crap after. No one’s going to want to kiss you. Seriously, Sam, first time you make out with someone that tastes like an ashtray? That’s gonna put you off for life."

Which, as it turns out, is absolutely the wrong thing to say, because then Sam leans in and kisses him.

It’s not the big deal he thought it might be. The earth doesn’t move, but then neither does it open up to swallow them whole, which Dean guesses is a plus. In the end, it’s not much more than the dry press of his brother’s mouth against his own. All Dean can taste is the lingering burn of cigarette smoke and the coffee on his own tongue. It’s not the best kiss he’s ever had, it’s not the worst. It’s even possible that, as it is, he can find some way of explaining it within the normal confines of brotherly affection. It’s a stretch, sure, but he’s certain there’s got to be a way. Maybe.

Turns out it’s a moot point, anyhow, because then Sam lets out this tiny little sigh and shifts his head, opens his mouth slightly so that suddenly the feeling is warm and slick and Dean knows that any chance they had of letting this moment pass them by or explaining it away has been lost, right then.

Sam kisses him, over and over, and Dean kisses back in spite of himself, lets his eyes flutter shut. They keep on like that until Sam reaches up with one hand to cup Dean’s face. His fingers are freezing and Dean jerks instinctively at the touch: it’s enough to jolt him back to the reality of what they’re doing. He pulls back a little, keeps his eyes closed, though he knows that Sam’s are open and fixed on him. The hand that was on Dean’s face lingers between them on the step, one of Sam’s fingers catching lightly at the waistband of Dean’s sweats. It’s too much and not enough and Dean knows that there’s no way to change what just happened, to make this moment anything less than it is, but he tries anyway.

"Where’s the mistletoe?"

But it doesn’t come out right: his voice sounds breathy and rough, and the words fall heavy between them, not light and dismissive like he means them to. Sam doesn’t say anything for a long moment, breathing shallow and uneven. When Dean finally opens his eyes, his brother’s face is too close again, and when he whispers, "Dean," so quiet it’s almost inaudible, Sam’s voice is charged with something that shouldn’t be there. Not for them. Not here, not now.

Dean feels dizzy and sick, like he could pass out or throw up or maybe both at the same time. He knows if something else doesn’t happen soon, that Sam’s going to kiss him again, and he can’t tell if it’s disappointment or relief or something else entirely that washes over him when they hear the sound of their mother in the kitchen. Sam’s gaze falters and he stares down at his feet instead. Dean doesn’t waste time: he collects his cup and stands up off the step. Turns to the house and makes his way to the back door.

Sam says his name again, not much louder than before, but Dean just steps inside as if he hasn’t heard.

His mother’s at the stove; she turns to him and smiles brightly, wishes him a happy Christmas. He kisses her cheek, drinks her coffee, eats eggs and ham and toast when she sets them before him, and concentrates very hard on not throwing them back up when she gives him that smile again.

Eventually, Sam comes in and does the same.

+++

His sophomore year, Dean starts concentrating hard on getting his Engineering major, which means a lot more hours spent in class, and he also gets a job at the campus coffee shop, which means a lot of hours making drinks with ridiculous names, mostly for high-strung students who probably don’t need another caffeine fix today.

He barely has a second to breathe, but it’s a welcome distraction after the summer—too long and too hot—which he spends alternately helping his Dad out at the garage and systematically avoiding too much time alone with Sam. It’s easy enough for the first few weeks—Sam’s barely at home and when he is, he spends most of his time in his room—but then one day Dean comes home covered in engine grease to find Sam slumped on the couch reading _Catcher in the Rye_ , and after that he seems to be everywhere.

They watch a lot of movies, play a lot of video games, shoot hoops and kick a soccer ball around outside on days when the heat isn’t too intense; and Dean is on edge through it all, dread and anticipation and guilt all mixed up with a sense of _want_ so strong it makes him dizzy. It comes to nothing: if what he fears is a reprisal of the incident at Christmas, one never materialises.

In August, when he heads back up to school in the beat up old Ford his Dad gave him as payment for the summer’s work, he’s overcome by relief so overwhelming that he has to stop just outside of Lawrence for a while until his hands stop shaking on the wheel.

He’s been back a few weeks when Dad calls him about Sam. Apparently he’s been suspended from school for a few days for fighting with another guy on the soccer team, though neither of them will say why.

"Don’t suppose you’d have a word with him yourself?" John asks, "No surprise, he won’t talk to us about it, but maybe he’ll talk to you."

When Sam finally comes to the phone, though, he doesn’t offer Dean any explanation other than the guy was an asshole and that he totally deserved it.

It goes on like that, John calling every so often to tell Dean about the latest dumb thing Sam’s been up to, and for a while, Dean offers advice, even talks to Sam on occasion, but the conversations are largely one-sided and Dean doesn’t think much of what he says gets through. He even goes home a couple of times, like when Sam gets brought home drunk by a police officer (who is thankfully a friend of John’s and doesn’t take the matter any further). Dean skips class the next day and drives back to Lawrence, where his finds his mother scouring pans that are already gleaming.

He tries talking to Sam, but the conversation doesn’t yield much except a vague assurance that Sam’s not messing with anything heavier than alcohol.

Dean gets some kind of reaction when he says, "You know you made Mom cry?" but it’s fleeting, not much more than a brief, sharp look from Sam before his walls are back in place and Dean can’t get anything else out of him no matter how hard he tries.

All things considered, the trip’s a waste of gas (and, therefore, money), time and energy, and Dean heads back up to school pissed as he’s ever been.

John’s calls increase after that, sometimes coming every other day, but Dean doesn’t offer to talk to Sam and he doesn’t drive home anymore. He avoids Thanksgiving by claiming that he has a big project due right after—which he does, technically, though he leaves out the part where he finished it already—and he only stays a week at Christmas before taking Simon up on his offer to visit him at his parents’ place in Aspen until school starts again.

In the second semester, his father’s calls come fewer and farther between, and eventually he just stops calling about Sam altogether. His mother still calls him all the time, asking him about school and work and whether he’s got a girlfriend yet, but she hardly ever mentions Sam and Dean never asks.

He concentrates hard on his school work, spends a lot of time with Simon in the library, almost scores a 4.0 but for the stupid English class he has to take as a requirement.

He runs a lot—early mornings mostly, but sometimes late at night, if he can’t sleep, usually when Simon’s up studying with his desk lamp on.

He dates a girl named Leila, who’s a business major and a little too much of a party animal even for Dean; a girl named Sasha, majoring in politics, who speaks three languages but can’t carry on a conversation in any of them; and a girl named Susie, an English major who turns out to be less interested in Dean than she is in Dean’s friend Sarah. He feels used and a little pissed off, at first, until he gets to watch the two of them make-out at a party a couple of weeks later. After that he feels pretty good about the whole thing.

Then he meets Erin—major currently undecided—who’s interested in photography and who tells Dean she loves him after two months together.

They’re not in bed or anything at the time, so Dean can’t even rely on later being able to put his response down to post-sex haze. He thinks for a minute, takes in her bright smile and the hand she has on his knee, and when he finally says, "Yeah, me too," it’s not entirely a lie.

He barely talks to Sam and when he does it’s awkward and stilted. When Dean’s at home sometimes they hang out like they used to, but it feels forced and tense and it never lasts long.

They don’t speak at all when Dean’s back at school, except the time the phone rings in the middle of the night and it’s Sam, voice too loud and slurred so thick Dean can barely make out what he’s saying. At first he thinks it’s just drunkenness, but after a few moments it’s clear that this is something else. Obviously the little "drugs are bad" talk they had before really made a lot of impact.

"You know I’m gonna tell Dad in the morning," he says, but Sam just laughs like this is all genuinely hilarious and says, "No, you won’t." Just for a second Dean wants to be able to punch his brother’s stupid smiling face and see the bruise his fist would leave behind.

He hangs up instead and doesn’t sleep till morning comes. When it finally does, he doesn’t call his parents, either.

One night, he and Simon get stupidly drunk on Cuervo and stay up talking till the early hours. He likes Simon: is glad they decided to carry on as roommates. They balance each other out – Dean takes personal pride in being the reason Simon doesn’t ever manage to overwork himself to the point of complete mental breakdown, and he also knows that there are more than a couple of classes he would never have passed if it weren’t for Simon. They don’t really socialise with the same sort of people most of the time, and their taste in just about everything couldn’t be more different, but Dean reckons that if, ten years from now, he’s only friends with one person from college, it’ll probably be Simon.

They get so drunk that they end up slumped against each other on Dean’s bed, which is incredibly uncomfortable and kind of bizarrely intimate at the same time, Dean’s head lolling half on Simon’s arm, half on his chest.

Simon’s a little bit gay, but Dean’s totally cool with it. It’s funny, actually, to see how flirty he gets when he’s drunk, especially as the rest of the time Simon can list a hundred reasons why Dean is so not his type. Turns out, when alcohol’s involved, _everyone_ is Simon’s type.

Dean has a feeling that Simon thinks he might be a little gay too. This is probably not unreasonable of him, considering that Dean spent their entire freshman year staring at this tall skinny guy who lived down the hall from them and who, in the Spring, happened to be in the Chemistry class that Dean and Simon both took. Dean’s quite happy to let Simon believe that he’s a little gay, considering the alternative. The day Simon finally meets Sam will be an interesting one. He’d like to think that Simon will have forgotten the guy by then, but it’s probably unlikely. Trust Dean to get a roommate with near photographic memory. Stupid Simon.

Anyway, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Right now, he’s having enough trouble just trying not to fall off the bed.

He ends up talking about Sam, telling Simon everything his brother’s been doing the past few months, how out of character the whole thing seems.

"I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s done some stupid things in his time, and he can be a sulky son of a bitch, but all of this," he gestures wildly with the hand holding the bottle. It’s a good thing they’ve done such a fine job of emptying it, because otherwise he’d definitely be dousing himself in tequila right about now. He starts again, "All of this—it’s just not like Sammy."

Simon attempts a shrug, but it’s so sluggish that his shoulders don’t even move at the same time.

"Maybe you don’t know your brother as well as you think you do," he says.

Dean doesn’t think that’s it. He’s known Sam longer than Sam’s known himself. He knows Sam’s moods, his likes and dislikes, his fears, his quirks, every joke he’s likely to tell and every expression that passes over his face. He knows his favourite colour (blue), and his favourite snack (double-stuf oreos dunked in strawberry milk), and that he always, always eats all the marshmallows in his Lucky Charms first.

He knows other things too. He knows that by the time he was fourteen Sam had kissed three girls—two with tongue, which he didn’t really enjoy on either occasion—and had gotten a hand job from a girl named Megan in the back row of _Tomorrow Never Dies_ , which he _definitely_ enjoyed. From sharing a bathroom for the last fifteen years, he knows that Sam is a little obsessive about brushing his teeth; that he does it four or five times a day at least; that it’s the first thing he does every morning, even before pissing or taking care of morning wood.

He knows the sounds his brother makes when he gets himself off. He tells himself that’s also the result of sharing a bathroom, but isn’t terribly convinced by his own argument.

Even so drunk he’s almost past the point of cognitive thought, Dean can recall the sound of Sam’s voice, the lines of his face, the feel and scent of him. _Not_ knowing him has never been the problem.

Simon’s looking down at him with searching eyes that suggest he’s not really as drunk as he seems.

Dean meets his gaze and says, "Yeah, maybe."

+++

When Dad finally calls to say that Sam’s probably going to fail the eleventh grade, Dean cancels his plans for Spring Break and drives home right away.

His friends are flying out to Miami for the week. He tells them all that his Mom’s missing him something fierce, and that his little brother’s got a soccer game he can’t skip out on.

He’s not even sure Sam plays anymore.

They find someone else to take his place easy enough, but they’re disappointed that he’s bailing on them, and when he says goodbye to Erin, the look on her face tells him that it’s for good. He knows he should probably care more about that.

It takes him longer than usual to make the journey back, though the traffic isn’t bad and he only stops once for gas.

When he finally gets in, the sky is darkening with the promise of rain and Sam’s out on the driveway throwing a basketball around. He’s gotten even taller since Dean saw him last, and skinnier, somehow, if that’s possible. Dean recognises the Led Zeppelin shirt Sam’s wearing as one of his own, left behind because it had gotten too tight in the shoulders and across his chest. On Sam it’s too short and doesn’t meet the waist of his jeans, but it’s also slightly loose around the top and on his arms.

Sam hears the car pull up at the kerb, though he doesn’t turn his head, just flits his eyes over briefly. He looks sullen and really, _really_ tired, and his hair is too long in front. Their mom always made a point of keeping it short—said she hated seeing such beautiful eyes hidden—but it’s been a while now since Sam’s listened to much of anything anybody’s said, least of all about his hair.

Dean sits a moment longer in the car after he’s turned off the ignition. Runs a hand through his hair and takes a breath. Mentally berates himself for apparently having to drum up the courage to talk to his _little brother_ , for Christ’s sake, and that thought’s enough to get him moving. He steps out of the car, leaves his jacket on the back seat despite the chill in the air that hits him, prickling at his skin.

Sam doesn’t turn around to say, "So I guess Dad called you."

"Yeah, he called me."

"Figures."

Dean has his hands in his pockets. They’re uncomfortable there, clenched and tight. He folds his arms across his chest instead.

"What’s going on, Sammy?"

Sam just shrugs and shoots the ball again. It misses by about three feet and hits the garage door with a dull thud. "Nothing’s going on."

"You really expect me to believe that?"

"So I’m flunking a couple of classes, whatever."

"Sam, the rate you’re goin’ you’re not even going to pass the year. C’mon, are you seriously telling me that you want to spend the whole summer catching up? Maybe end up repeating the eleventh grade?"

"It’s not a big deal."

"Like hell it’s not." Dean’s voice is louder than he means it to be. The last thing he needs right now is the neighbours looking out to see what those Winchester boys are yelling about this time, and besides, getting angry at Sam has never really gotten him anywhere.

He tries again, quieter this time: goes for imploring rather than confrontational.

"Sam, c’mon, don’t be an idiot, okay? What do you think Dad’s going to do if you fail? He’s gonna be pissed, man."

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirks up. It can’t really be termed a smile, but it’s enough.

"Yeah, I know," he says.

And that’s just fucking _it_. Dean grabs the ball from Sam’s hands and tosses it to one side. It bounces off into the garden, just barely missing their mother’s rose bushes.

"So that’s what this is? Just another way of pissing Dad off? You think that by flunking out of high school you’re proving some point to him? All you’re doing is fucking things up for yourself. You’re too smart for that, Sammy. Now I know that you think Dad can be hard on you sometimes—"

Sam’s had the corner on derisive snorts since he was twelve: this one is particularly impressive.

"Well that’s the understatement of the century. Dean, whatever I do it’s never going to be good enough for him. Nothing ever could be—not compared to you."

"That’s not true, Sam."

"Of course it is. Everything I’ve ever done, no matter what, you’ve always done it first—better, usually. I got straight As my Freshman year, but when I showed Dad my report card, he just wanted to know why I hadn’t joined any sports teams 'like Dean.' So then I joined the soccer team and it was 'why not baseball?' And when my grades slipped a little because the coach was pushing us really hard, and I said maybe it would be better for me to give it up? Dad couldn’t wait to tell me how you’d always managed to do both without any trouble," Sam’s moving his arms a lot; tight, sharp little movements he only makes when he’s either really angry or trying not to cry. It’s maybe both right now. He runs a hand through his hair roughly and goes on, "I mean, _god_ , last semester I took AP History _and_ English and Dad’s first response was to ask if I’d thought about taking _Shop_ like you because it’s so fucking _useful_."

Dean thinks that last point probably has more to do with their father’s own belief in the superior merits of hands-on work and elbow grease than anything else, but Sam’s almost certainly not in the mood to hear that, so he keeps it to himself.

He has to say _something_ , though, and he manages, "Sam, that’s not—" without really knowing what he’s going to say next. Sam stares at him with sharp eyes, and in the end Dean says, "That’s just _Dad_ ," which is absolutely not going to help the situation any.

Sure enough, Sam snorts with disgust and says, "Yeah, it is." He turns away and looks off down the road somewhere, jaw tight.

Dean tries again, "Even if all that were true, Sam, do you really think _this_ is the way to change it? You think you’re proving _anything_ to him—to anyone—"

"I’m not _trying_ to prove anything, Dean. I’m not—I don’t care anymore, alright? I’ve had enough of trying to be somebody Dad can be proud of, when he’s never going to be. I just—I’m done, okay?"

They’re silent for a minute. Dean stares at the pavement, breathes deep and wills away the headache he can feel starting behind his eyes. He tries changing tack again.

"Okay, fine, so you don’t care what Dad thinks. You care about Mom?" Sam’s shaking his head and his breath comes harsh and shallow, but he doesn’t say anything, so Dean carries on, "And what about me, Sam? You think I want this for you? You think I want to see you throw your future away like this?"

"Fuck you," Sam says, and there’s more bitterness and hurt in those two words than Dean has ever heard from his brother—maybe anyone—before. "What the fuck do you even _care_ , Dean, it’s not like you’re _here_. You left—"

"I had to," Dean yells back, all patience gone, and that statement’s heavy with implication that he doesn’t really want to consider. Sam looks at him like he knows it too, like he’s been waiting for Dean to let that slip, but there’s just no way he’s getting into it now. He sidesteps instead, says, "I went to _college_ , Sam. It’s not—it’s not like I’m never gonna come back. I’m here now, aren’t I?"

"Yeah, because Dad called you and told to come home so you could deal with me when he couldn’t fucking do it for himself anymore—"

"Sam, that’s enough."

Sam’s head jerks in the direction of their father’s voice. He curls his lip and shakes his head and stalks off down the drive, hands shoved in his pockets, pulling his jeans down perilously low on his hips.

Dean winces, scrubs a hand over his face. Considers calling after his brother but decides against it.

"Bad timing?"

"The worst, Dad."

He goes inside with his father and they drink beer and talk about school and baseball and the latest car John’s working on with Mike.

It’s always been so much easier between Dean and John; any disagreements can usually be worked out over a beer, and even those than can’t have never twisted themselves up and turned sour the way things always seem to with Sam.

Eventually, conversation lulls, and there’s nothing for it but to bring up the elephant in the room.

"I don’t know what to do, anymore," John says, "He barely speaks to me, and when he does we just end up yelling. Most of the time I don’t even know what we’re fightin’ about, to tell you the truth."

"What about Mom?"

John shrugs, leans back in the chair. "He’s better with her, but if she tries to get him to talk about school it’s the same story. I came home last week and they were screaming at each other in the kitchen."

"About what?"

John sighs. "Algebra, I think."

Dean nods, sips at his beer.

His dad’s looking at him with an expression Dean’s come to recognise. He knows that the correct response to it is, "I’ll talk to him."

John smiles a little. "Thanks, son. You know he listens to you more than he does either of us."

Dean’s not so sure, but he smiles and says, "No problem."

"Never had this kind of trouble with you," John says with a chuckle, and it’s then that Dean thinks maybe Sam’s got a least one valid point in all of this.

Mary comes in a short while later, loaded down with groceries. She hugs Dean when he stands to greet her, and he can tell she’s upset by the tight clutch of her arms and the way she doesn’t let go right away. He brings in the rest of the bags from the car, helps her put everything away and get dinner started. She asks about school, and particularly about Erin. He feels almost guilty having to tell her that it’s probably over for good now; he knows how much she’s been looking forward to finally meeting her.

After his skills with a knife and a cutting board are no longer required, he heads upstairs to take a shower, and it’s not until he turns off the water again that he hears raised voices downstairs. The argument’s heated, but brief enough that before Dean can even finish getting dressed he hears one final, "Screw you," from Sam, then his father’s voice shouting after his brother as he thumps up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door behind him.

When Dean does come out of the bathroom, still towelling his hair dry, Sam’s door is firmly shut and won’t budge when Dean tries the handle. He knows that Dad took the bolt off of Sam’s door a while ago, so Dean figures Sam must have wedged something up against it. He tries knocking and says his brother’s name a few times, but gets no response except the sudden blast of Sam turning his music on.

Dean goes downstairs and finds his parents sitting at the kitchen table. Mom’s eyes are red and Dad’s face is grim and tight. It’s pretty obvious that Sam’s not coming down to join them any time soon, so they go ahead and eat dinner without him, then Dean helps his Dad with the dishes while his Mom puts the leftovers away in the refrigerator.

Afterwards, Dean heads up to his room and spends a couple of hours working on a paper he’s got due after break. He hears his parents lock up downstairs and then come up to bed, but nothing from Sam’s room except the heavy thump of bass and eventually, not even that.

He goes to bed around midnight, but he doesn’t sleep. It’s gone one when he hears Sam’s door open and then a soft knock at his own. He tells Sam to come in, and sits up against the headboard as his brother enters, closing the door behind him.

Sam stands by the door awkwardly for a couple of minutes, until Dean tells him to sit down if he’s staying; then he sits cross-legged on the bed opposite Dean and pulls at a loose thread on his t-shirt.

"I’m sorry," he says, finally.

"Yeah, me too," says Dean, and he leans forward a little, rests his arms on his bent knees. He carries on, "Look, I know it can be hard, sometimes, with Dad. I know you think that he’s disappointed in you, I know that you don’t always get along—"

Sam huffs out a derisive sort of laugh. "That’s one way of putting it," he says.

Dean keeps talking over Sam’s interruption, "But he cares about you, Sam. So does Mom. They want you to be happy."

Sam laughs again, steadfastly keeping his eyes down, even as Dean tries to catch his gaze. "They do, Sammy. You have to realise that. They love you."

"And you?" Sam says, still not looking up.

Dean only hesitates for a second, but he’s sure Sam notices anyway. "Yeah, me too, Sammy, of course."

Sam nods, almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean lets his knees fall away from one another, so he can lean closer in.

"But all of this—everything you’re doing—it has to stop, okay? You have to stop, now, Sam, because if you don’t, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life. You flunk this year, end up repeating; spend your time getting drunk and stoned; fuck things up with Mom and Dad too bad? You’re gonna hate yourself for it one day," he says. Then he smiles, tries to lighten the conversation a little, "You’re gonna be saying to yourself, 'man, my brother was smart. Wish I’d listened to all the awesome advice he had to give.'"

Sam looks up, at last. He’s not smiling, but there’s something like amusement in his eyes. "You think?" he says.

"Yeah, Sam, I do," he says, and he holds Sam’s gaze and goes for serious again: "So, would you just—try? For me, Sammy. Please."

Sam makes this quiet little sound of what Dean takes to be assent; then he leans in and before Dean has time to think, their lips touch. They’ve been here before, and it’s just as terrible an idea now as it was then, but somehow this time it’s dark and quiet enough for Dean to almost ignore everything that’s wrong about the situation and just let it happen.

Almost, but not quite. He plants a hand on Sam’s chest and manages to push him away so that there’s space enough between them for him to say, "We can’t."

Sam frowns, frustration and hurt written in the lines of his jaw, his brow. "Why not? Why can’t we—"

He pauses for a second, breathes out sharply, like he’s trying to figure out a way to phrase this that won’t draw too much attention to how completely fucked up it really is. Finally settles on, "Why can’t we have this?"

"Sam, this isn’t—this isn’t something you can just _have_. This is—"

"Not just me. Us. I know you want—you can’t tell me you don’t want this too, okay? You just can’t."

"It’s _wrong_ , Sammy."

"Why?"

"Why? Do you need me to spell it out for you? You’re my _brother_."

Sam leans in close again, breathes against Dean’s mouth, "I don’t care."

It's a close thing, but Dean manages to get his hand up before Sam can kiss him again. Of course, this puts his fingers in close proximity to Sam's lips, which is problematic in itself, but before anything can happen he just says, "No." Sam might not be willing to hear any of the perfectly legitimate reasoning Dean's got as to why this is the worst idea since, oh, ever, but he thinks he'll listen to _that_.

He seems to, at least. Pulls away again and that gives Dean just the opportunity to turn away and lie back down on the bed, curled in on himself, staring at the wall.

Eventually, the mattress shifts and Dean hears the door shut. For a moment, he breathes with what might be relief, is more likely abject fear. He tells himself that he’s done the right thing, but the hand he wraps around himself a few minutes later tells him that all he’s done is postpone the inevitable.

He comes quickly, face muffled in his pillow, and pretends he doesn’t know, sure as anything, that his brother’s still standing just outside the door.

+++

When the inevitable finally happens, Dean is just shy of his twenty-second birthday and there is, predictably, alcohol involved.

It’s a few days after New Year’s and Dean’s friend Miller (actual name Reuben Theodore Miller III, but the use of just his last name is totally appropriate considering his drink of choice) calls to announce that he’s throwing a party in honour of Dean’s birthday.

Dean’s pretty sure that Miller’s just looking for another excuse to get drunk now that New Year’s is no longer really a viable option, but he hasn’t seen the guy for a year at least, and it’s not like Dean is ever really averse to any situation that involves booze and pot, especially not when it will also potentially feature people slapping him on the back and telling him how awesome he is.

He winds up letting Sam come with him, mostly because he doesn’t trust that his brother won’t just find another way of getting there himself otherwise. At least this way, Dean can keep an eye on him. Their parents are out of town for a few days—up visiting John’s mother in Kansas City—but they’ll be back the next morning and Dean would really like to avoid any major Sam-related incidents before then.

Sam’s pulled himself together a lot since last year. He’s putting in effort at school again and his grades have improved. He’s thinking of college, although—largely through Callie’s influence, Dean suspects—most of his choices seem to be about as far away from Kansas as humanly possible. Mom and Dad aren’t thrilled with the idea, but there’s only so much they can say before it turns into an argument: that’s one thing that hasn’t really changed much.

He’s pretty sure Sam still drinks more than he should, too, which is why in retrospect, letting him come tonight was perhaps not Dean’s best idea ever.

He manages to keep Sam in sight for about an hour, but when some friends arrive who Dean hasn’t see since graduation, he loses track of him. He figures it’s not such a big deal; practically everyone here knows that Sam is Dean’s little brother, and he can’t get into too much trouble if Dean only leaves him alone for a short while.

Unfortunately, it’s at this point that several of Dean’s friends decide that the "birthday boy" isn’t nearly drunk enough and start plying him with alcohol. Dean’s not an idiot: he only drinks from about one in every three of the red cups that are thrust into his hands (which start out as beer and end up god only knows what), but it’s enough to blur his mind so that before he knows it, it’s gone midnight and he hasn’t see Sam for hours.

He can’t find him anywhere downstairs, and he’s just about to go up and check in the bedrooms, when Miller comes in from the backyard. He sees Dean and gives a drunken sort of shout, grabs Dean by the arm.

"Hey, Winchester," he slurs, "Happy fucking birthday."

"Yeah, thanks, Miller, it just gets better every time you say it."

He’s just about to go on and ask about Sam, when Miller says, "Man, your friend sure can drink, huh?"

"What?"

"Yeah, man, we were doing shots out on the back porch – he sure knows how to knock ‘em back."

"Who does?"

"Your friend, man. The one you brought with you."

Dean stares at him in disbelief. "That’s _Sam_ , you ass."

"What?"

"My brother?"

Miller looks so confused it would be comical, if it wasn’t so fucking annoying. He shakes his head and says, "No way, man, your brother’s only, like seventeen or something."

Dean just looks at him, gives him time to catch up. He does, eventually, bloodshot eyes blown wide, and says, "Seriously? That’s your kid brother out there?"

Dean nods very slowly.

"Woah," Miller says, considering, "Dude, he is _tall_."

Dean wants to launch into a tirade about how Miller has known Sam since he was ten, and how the fuck can he _not_ have recognised him, but looking at the guy, it’s pretty obvious he’s stoned as well as drunk off his ass, and so anything Dean says won’t even register right now, let alone be remembered later.

He saves it up in his head for another time when they’re both sober, pushes past Miller and heads towards the back door.

Miller calls out after him, "Make sure he doesn’t drown in the pool or nothing."

When Dean steps outside, he’s hit by a blast of cold air, but also the smell of pot and a wave of drunken chatter from the group of people gathered on the porch. A couple of guys are building a beer can pyramid over to one side, a bunch of other people are doing shots round a rickety old table. Dean can see salt and lemons, long since abandoned. Tequila, then. Great.

Dean doesn’t recognise anybody out here, and most of them are drunk past the point of coherence anyway, but there’s one girl who manages to answer when Dean asks about Sam.

"The tall guy?" she says, sipping at a red cup full of something that looks and smells distinctly non-alcoholic. Dean’s automatically impressed by anybody who manages to stay even slightly sober at a party thrown by Miller. He’s not sure that he’s even _seen_ a soft drink since he got here.

He nods in reply.

"He sure likes tequila, huh?" she says, leaning in a little to make herself heard over everybody else.

Dean smiles sarcastically and says, "So I’ve been told."

She smiles back at him and sips at her drink again. It’s possible that she’s flirting, and under any other circumstances Dean would probably be flirting right back. She’s cute and curvy and doesn’t seem to be falling out of her clothes like a lot of the other girls here. She has earrings shaped like safety pins, a silver hoop halfway up her left ear and another at the top, and she’s wearing rectangular glasses with thick black rims. Dean’s about to ask for her name, maybe even her number, but before he can, she’s pointing in the direction of the pool saying, "I think he’s over there," and the thought disappears from Dean’s mind. He thanks her and heads over towards the pool, where he finds Sam lying on his back on the diving board.

For some reason the pool is uncovered: Dean’s not sure why. Probably Miller was holding out for some skinny dipping as the evening wore on, but Dean thinks that’s a pretty tall order in the middle of January when there’s snow on the ground. Still, if there’s one thing you can say for Miller, it’s that he’s an optimist.

Dean walks up behind his brother and when he gets close, Sam tilts his head back to look at Dean upside down.

"Dean!" he says, like he’s five years old and greeting Dean when he’d get in from school. The thought only pisses Dean off more.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

Sam moves his head back so that he’s looking up at the sky again.

"Just chillin’," he says, "Felt kinda sick so I figured lyin’ down might help."

"Yeah, you know what else might help? Not drinking so much."

Sam frowns. "You’re no fun."

"Whatever, Sammy, it’s time to go home."

Sam sits up and swings his legs round so that they’re hanging over the edge of the board, which bounces gently as he moves.

"Don’t wanna."

Dean breathes out slowly and takes a step closer.

"Come on, Sam. You’re gonna thank me in the morning when you’re still alive."

He makes a grab for Sam’s arm, but Sam just shifts a little further along the diving board, swaying unsteadily. There’s no way Dean can get to him now without walking out onto the board himself, which would be dumber than dumb, but apparently he’s drunker that he thought.

He edges along a little way on his knees, then grabs at Sam’s arm again, only this time he gets hold of it.

"Let go," Sam says, looking and sounding so much like a petulant child that Dean can’t help but respond in kind. He pulls at Sam’s arm like they’re kids again and fighting over the remote.

It’s so startlingly obvious what’s going to happen—such a painful, textbook, movie cliché—that Dean’s a little surprised when it actually does. They pull back and forth for a few seconds before Sam pulls too hard in his direction and they both end up tumbling on top of one another into seven feet of freezing cold water.

When Dean gets his head above the surface, Sam’s already there, laughing his stupid head off and shaking his stupid hair out of his eyes, spraying water everywhere like a stupid goddamn dog. Dean’s so cold his teeth start clacking together almost immediately, so he probably doesn’t sound all that threatening when he says, "You are so dead, I swear to god, Sam."

Sam just laughs harder, but in doing so he gets a lungful of water and starts coughing violently. Dean rolls his eyes and grabs the front of Sam’s t-shirt, saying, "Oh my god, you’re actually going to drown."

He pulls his brother over to the side of the pool, hauls himself up to sit on the edge, then grabs at Sam until he finally ends up sprawled next to Dean on the tile.

A cheer goes up from the back porch, where a bunch of people have been watching the whole thing. The girl Dean spoke to before raises her glass in salute. Dean tries to smile in return, but it’s a half-hearted effort.

When he turns back to look at his brother, Sam’s still alternately coughing and laughing. Dean kind of wants to just dump him back in the pool and leave him there, but there’s no guarantee that Sam wouldn’t _actually_ drown or die of hypothermia or something, so he gets to his feet instead and says, "You’re such a fucking pain in my ass, you know that?"

Sam rolls over onto his back and looks up at Dean with a grin.

"Yeah, but you love me anyway," he says, and there’s really no safe way for Dean to respond to that, so he doesn’t.

He offers Sam his hand, just in case his brother feels like making things easy on both of them. When it’s clear Sam has no such intention, Dean grabs him by his stupid sweatshirt and hauls him up to his feet.

Sam staggers against him, still grinning. Dean tries to get one of Sam’s arms round his neck so that he can start walking him back to the car, but then Sam just ends up with _both_ arms around Dean, and his face pressed up to Dean’s neck. Dean can feel his brother smile against the damp skin of his throat.

"Sam, come on, quit screwin’ around. It’s time to go home," he says.

"You do, y’know," Sam mumbles.

"I do what, Sam?" Dean says.

Sam lifts his head up and looks at Dean, stupid drunken grin plastered all over his face. "Love me," he says.

They’re getting into dangerous territory here, and Dean’s not nearly sober enough to navigate it effectively. He just says, "Sure, Sammy, whatever. Let’s go."

He pulls one of Sam’s arms from round his neck and gets one of his own around Sam’s waist, then starts walking him across the garden. It would be quicker and involve less potential embarrassment to go round the side of the house, but Dean’s left his jacket inside and he’ll be damned if he’s leaving three hundred dollars worth of leather behind so that Miller can spill something unnameable on it. There’s also no way he’s leaving Sam on his own anymore tonight (possibly not ever again ever), so he heads towards the back porch.

Sam comes along easily enough, though he’s clearly having trouble putting one foot in front of the other, but the biggest problem is that he just won’t _shut up_.

He keeps saying, "You love me, I know you love me. Y’ _told_ me so," his free hand clenching and unclenching the material of Dean’s t-shirt.

Dean’s pretty sure that the noise level on the porch is enough that most people can’t hear what Sam’s babbling on about, but they get a couple of sideways glances anyway. He catches sight of the girl with the glasses; she gives him a knowing look. He thinks he hears someone tell him to just be a man and admit it, but he can’t be sure.

The whole thing makes him queasy in a way that has nothing to do with the sick sweet smell of pot in the air or the liquor still churning around inside him.

He jabs Sam in the ribs and says, "Shut up, you giant drunk."

Amazingly, Sam does, and they manage to make it through the throng of people still inside the house with relative ease; Dean picks up his jacket with his free hand and then they finally get out the front door. A few people call out goodbye to Dean as he leaves. Dean thinks he makes some reply, though what, he honestly couldn’t say.

As soon as they get out into the front yard, Sam starts up again.

"I know you do, Dean. I know you love me. You can tell me, why won’t you tell me?"

When they reach Dean’s car, Dean props Sam up against it and says, "Okay, Sammy, you’re a stupid ass, but yeah, I love you. There, you happy now?"

He searches his jacket pockets for his keys, has just located them when Sam says, quiet and sad, "Not like that. That’s not how-" He starts slumping down against the passenger door, so that Dean has to grab him and pull him back before he ends up on the pavement. "That’s not what I meant," he finishes.

"Then what _did_ you mean?" Dean asks, though he’s not sure he really wants to know.

"You _know_ what I mean," Sam says, quieter still, and yeah, that’s just the kind of thing Dean doesn’t need to hear right now. He unlocks the passenger door instead and manhandles Sam towards it.

"Go on, Gigantor, get in."

"’m all wet."

"Yeah, me too, and whose fault is that? You can pay me for the damage to the upholstery tomorrow."

Sam frowns. "’m not payin’ for your stupid car. Y’should just buy a whole new one that doesn’t _suck_."

"Thanks, Sam, I’ll bear that in mind, now will you please just get in the goddamn car?"

Sam does, and Dean shuts the door behind him with a little more force than is strictly necessary. He stands there for a few seconds, forearms resting on the roof of the car, and takes a couple of deep breaths before he heads round to the driver’s side and gets in himself.

Sam’s head is tipped back against the headrest and his eyes are half-shut already.

"Hey," Dean says, "Think you can stay awake till we get back? ‘Cause I sure ain’t carrying your ass inside. You fall asleep, I’m just leaving you in the car all night, y’hear?"

Sam nods sluggishly, but he sits up a little in his seat and rubs at his eyes.

Dean turns the ignition; in honesty he probably shouldn’t be driving, but the idea of walking Sam all the way home is just too painful, and he’s sobered up enough that it shouldn’t be too much of a problem this late at night.

The journey back is mercifully simple—no cops, not even any other cars, and Sam is blessedly silent the whole time. It isn’t until they pull up to the kerb in front of the house that Sam says, "Hey, Dean, I think I might need to throw up now."

There’s a close call in the front yard, and another halfway up the stairs, but in the end Sam manages to keep it together until Dean has him settled in the bathroom and divested of his soaking wet sweatshirt.

When Sam’s finally reduced to just infrequent bouts of dry heaving, Dean works on getting him into clean, dry clothes. Dean’s already changed into sweats and a t-shirt; now he just has to get Sam to do the same.

He pulls off his shoes and socks when Dean prompts him to, throwing them to one side. The shoes are his favourite Chuck Taylors—the blue ones coming apart at the sides—and Dean knows that in the morning Sam’s gonna be pissed that they’re beyond saving. Well, when he’s done wanting to crawl into a hole and die, that is.

After he’s done with his footwear, however, Sam just sits there looking sorry for himself. He lifts his arms up obediently when Dean tugs at his t-shirt, but that’s it. He’s left wearing only his jeans and boxers, and Dean is so not in the mood for dealing with this, so he thrusts the dry clothes into Sam’s slack hands and says, "I’m going to go get you some water. Think you can manage?"

Sam nods, but he looks so out of it that when Dean comes back to the bathroom he half expects to find Sam either passed out or naked or both. Thankfully, though, Sam’s fully clothed and he’s even attempting to put his wet stuff in the laundry bin. It’s not a particularly good attempt, so Dean hands over the glass of water he’s brought up and finishes the job for him.

At first, Sam just throws the water right back up, and they sit in the bathroom for what feels like forever until he’s able to keep it down. At one point, Sam looks up from where he’s resting his forehead against the porcelain and says, "Thanks."

Dean shrugs, but doesn’t smile. He says, "I am an _awesome_ brother."

Eventually, Sam stands up, shakily, and says that he’d like to go to bed, now. Of course, he insists on brushing his teeth first, even though he’s practically falling asleep at the sink, but he successfully manages not to choke on the toothbrush and after that he finally lets Dean nudge him down the hall, into his bedroom and—at long last—onto the bed.

As soon as Sam’s under the covers, Dean makes to leave, but Sam reaches out a hand and grabs his wrist.

"Stay," he says.

"Sammy—"

"If you leave, I might pass out and choke on my own vomit."

Dean doesn’t think that’s very likely. Sam’s sobered up a lot since they got back and besides, it seems impossible at this point that Sam could have anything left in him on which he could possibly choke. Still, better not to take the risk, and Sam’s bed is right here and warm and Dean’s doesn’t even have clean sheets right now. It’s the thought of that, of going to the linen closet and finding some sheets that match and then putting them on his bed—even just throwing them in its general direction for the time being—that’s the thing that has him lying down next to Sam in a bed that’s not really big enough for the both of them. Yeah, it’s definitely that.

Sam smiles sleepily at Dean when he settles himself on the pillow, then his eyelids fall shut and he’s out almost immediately.

Dean waits until he hears Sam’s breathing even out to a slow, heavy pace, then considers getting up and going to his own room. There’s a comforter he could curl up in for the time being, and Sam’s going to be fine by himself, or he could maybe even get the comforter and camp out on Sam’s floor, just to be safe, or he could go downstairs and make coffee and watch infomercials so that if Sam needs anything, he’ll be awake for it.

He spends so long rationalising why there’s really no need for him to stay in Sam’s bed that the next thing he knows he’s waking up still in it and Sam’s bedside alarm (which Dean doesn’t think has seen use for three or four years at least) reads 4:32 in eerie green digits.

Dean rolls onto his back without thinking—just shifting position, stretching out cramped limbs—and wishes he hadn’t when he sees Sam’s face far too close to his own, eyes wide open and staring. Dean swallows, his throat suddenly tight, and he doesn’t move away even though he knows he should.

He doesn’t realise that he’s been waiting for Sam to speak until his brother whispers, "Dean, please."

Dean doesn’t know what he says—if he says anything at all—but Sam must read his answer somewhere, because the next thing Dean knows they’re kissing and his hands are in Sam’s hair and Sam’s are fisted in Dean’s t-shirt.

They shift against each other until their bodies are pressed together, Sam's hands pulling Dean in. Inexorable, like dark water closing over his head, dragging him down; blocking out light and muffling sound and even when they part it feels like there’s not enough air in the room for Dean to draw breath.

"Sam," he says, "Sammy, I never—I mean, I don’t—"

"I do," Sam says, and the smile on his face and the hand on Dean’s belly say that he really, really does. Dean wants to ask how and why and when, and say that he didn’t mean _that_ , anyway, but he can’t get the words out and even if he could they’d be impossible to hear over the beat of his heart and the rush of his blood and the things Sam murmurs into his skin.

Dean comes this time with his brother’s hand on his dick and his brother’s name on his lips, and the feeling of rightness that suddenly rushes over him is everything and nothing he knows it should be.

+++

When Dean is twenty-two, he graduates, and sees his baby brother do the same. He’s a little resentful of the fact that Sam’s high school graduation is a bigger deal than his from college, but he knows how his parents feared for a while that this day might not even come, and he’s as relieved as they are now that it finally has, so he doesn’t make too much of a fuss.

Afterwards, Dad gives Sam the Impala as a graduation present. He’d offered it to Dean first (rather arbitrarily, it seemed), and he’d been tempted, but he knows how much the car means to Sam, how much he’s wanted it since they were kids and it was the place he ran to when he wanted to feel safe. Dean also knows how big a gesture of trust it is on his dad’s part to give the car to Sam – there’s still a lot of work to be done on fixing that relationship, but Dean thinks maybe here’s a start.

The car’s given with the understanding that Sam can’t take full possession of it yet – not until he’s finished college, at least, and more importantly not until he’s demonstrated "sense and responsibility enough to be the owner of a car such as a 1967 Chevy Impala." He can use it whenever he’s at home, though, and it’s his in every sense but the legal one, for the time being.

Sam nods along with Dad as he’s saying all of this, but Dean can tell he’s not really listening. His eyes are glazed over with excitement, and as soon as John’s finished, Sam steps over to the Impala and runs a hand over the hood. He looks across the car at Dean.

"So what do you think? Road trip?" Sam smiles, bright and hopeful.

Dean smiles back. "Road trip."

John’s not happy with the idea, Dean can tell, but in the end he reluctantly agrees that a trip to the Grand Canyon (keeping to any and all speed limits along the way, and calling home at least every six hours) could possibly not end in total disaster. Incredibly, Sam barely argues the point, even though five minutes before he’d been proposing outlandish trips that took in Vegas, Los Angeles, even Mexico. Dean feels fairly sure that this is only a temporary armistice, but he’ll take what he can get, for now.

They leave on a Saturday morning, and their mother’s still wearing her nightdress, long and white, when she kisses them both goodbye in the hall.

While Sam puts their bags in the trunk, their father takes Dean to one side and pleads that, if it’s the only worthwhile thing he ever does in his life; he’ll make sure Sam takes care of the car. Dean promises, smiling at the look of earnest terror which crosses John’s face when he sees Sam sitting in the driver’s seat.

Dean walks down the front step and across to the car, steels himself up to drive shotgun next to his little brother. John follows, and when the passenger door is shut he rests his arm on the roof of the car to lean in at the window.

"Sam, just take care of the damn car, won’t you?" he says, and then, "Dean—take care of your brother."

Dean feels a little queasy at that – at the easy trust his dad puts in him to look after Sam, and the smile he offers in return probably looks tight and insincere, but he thinks Dad will probably just put that down to grim anticipation of Sam’s driving.

Sam makes this really undignified whooping noise when they pull out of the front drive, and drums loudly on the steering wheel a few times as they set off, but then he settles down and they drive in relative silence until they make it out of Lawrence, Dean dozing a little in the passenger seat.

After a while, though, Sam demands driving music. He looks so pleased to be behind the wheel: happy and relaxed in a way Dean doesn’t often see, and so he only complains a little bit when his brother settles on Rage Against the Machine. As it turns out, Sam rapping along with Zack de la Rocha is pretty much the funniest thing Dean’s ever seen, and so he guesses it’s generally a win-win situation. If he ends up joining in when _Killing in the Name_ comes on, it’s only because Sam’s enthusiasm is infectious, and everybody and their mother knows the words to that one anyway.

They make good time through Kansas and Oklahoma, taking a couple of bathroom breaks but not much else, and Dean reckons that they won’t need to stop for the night until Amarillo, at least. Before they can hit Texas, though, Sam pulls the car into the parking lot of a slightly dingy-looking motel with horseshoes on the door to each room. It’s still bright daylight outside, will be for hours yet, but Sam insists they should stop now and Dean’s not too bothered about arguing. It’s not like they’re in a hurry.

Dean gets their stuff out of the car while Sam goes up to pay for a room, and when he comes back it’s with a key ring shaped like a pony and a grin that makes Dean’s face flush hot and his mouth dry.

They’re in room number twenty-three, only the brass '2' has fallen off and it takes ten minutes for them to figure this out. When they finally find it, Sam opens the door and Dean steps inside; he has just enough time to see that there’s only one bed before Sam has him turned around and backed up against it.

When Dean is twenty-two, his brother undresses him and presses him down into the mattress. He kisses Dean’s mouth, his jaw, his stomach, the insides of his thighs, and when his lips finally close around Dean’s cock, Dean lets himself believe that there was never any other way this could have gone.

Afterwards, Sam smiles at him, and just for a moment it’s plastic boats and Transformers and sharing baths and yellow baby blankets. Dean’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the memory, but then Sam kisses him again and it’s gone.

The next morning Sam’s up almost before the sun and kissing Dean awake, slow and lazy, in a way that’s really not conducive to getting him out of bed. He says as much to Sam: his brother laughs and pulls away, ignores Dean’s hands as they make feeble grasping motions in the air.

"Well, I guess that means I’m showering alone, huh?"

The bed’s not really all that comfortable, anyway.

Sam insists they’ve no time to stop for breakfast (which is just so completely not true, and it makes Dean smile to see his brother so desperate to get back on the road), but Dean’s not going anywhere until he at least gets some caffeine, sugar and/or saturated fat inside him, and Sam might be a stubborn son of a bitch, but he learnt from the best, so they stop at the first gas station they see, and Sam fills up the tank while they’re there.

It’s still early, barely anyone about and the station attendant sleepy and unobservant behind the counter. Dean pays for the snacks and coffee, leaves Sam to pay for the gas (because hell, if Sam’s gonna _own_ the freaking car, then he can learn to pay for it too), and heads back across the forecourt to the Impala. He leans against the side, already dusty from only a day on the road, waits for Sam to come back.

Early morning sun is on his face, warm and soft: he closes his eyes against it, lets it wash over and about him. He hears footsteps approach, and when Dean opens his eyes, his brother’s right there, in his space, close enough to touch. Dean hesitates for about half a second before he’s pulling Sam in by his belt loops, flush against his own body, kissing him firmly, deliberately. Sam smiles into it, breathes out a laugh, cups Dean’s face in steady hands.

It’s not that easy, Dean knows. This cannot, never will be as simple as the two of them pressed together and sharing kisses, the road out ahead of them and the day just begun.

But right then, in that moment, it is.

 

 **end**

  



End file.
